


Winter Shall Howl at the Walls

by srncq



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4013449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srncq/pseuds/srncq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor leave King's landing after the Battle of the Blackwater</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa entered the room, pushing the door closed behind her, and stood for a moment with her back against it, letting her head knock against the heavy oak. Her knees sagged a little as the enormity of the night washed over her. With her eyes closed, she sent a silent prayer to the Gods, pleading for deliverance from whichever swarming, murderous horde ended the night victorious.

She wished her father were here. Or Robb. Or Loras Tyrell, or even Jon Snow, or anyone who could shield her from Stannis’ justice or Ser Ilyn Payne’s silent, gleaming alternative. She whimpered, and opened her eyes to see her chambers in greenish darkness - but for the window, which was a bright, jade rectangle of seething horror.

Terrified, but feeling somehow drawn toward the faint screams of men and horses and steel, Sansa crossed to her window, and her lips parted in shock. Outside, far away - and yet far, far too near - the world was on fire. Land, ships, water, men - all were ablaze. Sansa had heard that wildfire did not discriminate, but the reality was more horrifying than anything she could have imagined. The areas where the fire had not reached were no better. It seemed that the whole of King’s Landing had become a maelstrom of roaring violence, a chaotic race toward defeat for everyone involved. A tear slipped down Sansa’s cheek, unheeded.

In the forgotten darkness of her chambers, there was a sudden movement. Sansa whirled around to face the sound, hands trembling violently as she gripped the ledge of her window. I bolted the door, I bolted the door - Oh Gods,did I bolt the door? A mad, half-formed thought darted across her mind: it would not do for a Stark of Winterfell to die huddled and shaking against the wall. Raising her chin and forcing herself to stand alone, Sansa drew herself up as the figure raised itself unsteadily from her bed. He was big, too big, far too big - it was the Hound. Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise as he moved towards her, thoughts tripping over one another and scrambling into nothing as she tried to search for something to say. Was he sleeping on my bed?

The Hound advanced in a great hulking mass of armour and blood, and Sansa saw his face for the first time as he stepped into the poisonous green light. His black hair was plastered to his face with sweat, and she thought perhaps his nose had been broken. He had sustained a deep gash above his eye. The burned side of his face was covered entirely in dark, crusting blood, partially masking his terrible scars. But far, far worse than the scars were the eyes. Silver and glinting like a blade, they narrowed upon Sansa, full of anger and heat and the mad, feverish kind of drunkenness which could drive a man to do anything. Perhaps his blood is up like the Queen said and he is come to rape me. Sansa realised that she could not look away from him, and as the smell of blood and sweat and vomit and fire and fear which emanated from him surrounded her, she found her eyes upon his face once more. They looked at one another for a long moment, Sansa’s breath coming rapidly and Sandor Clegane’s rasping out from under his chest plate. Then, quick as a sword from a sheath, he grabbed Sansa’s wrist and wrenched her around so that her back was pressed against his chest. A huge, calloused hand which tasted of iron was clamped over her mouth. “If you scream I’ll kill you. Believe that.”

She did believe it, and yet it had not entered Sansa’s head to scream. The Hound hated her chirping, and who would she scream for anyway? Her wrist hurt. She tried to twist it out of his grasp, knowing it wouldn’t work. Instead, the Hound drove her to the bed and deposited her clumsily on it, so that he stood imposingly over her as she she sat as primly as their proximity would allow upon the edge of the mattress. She badly wanted to ask who was winning the battle, but she was afraid of the answer. “I thought...I thought you would be leading the sorties, Ser.”

“Bugger the sorties. Half my men were killed or wounded and the other half were not fools enough to try to fight fire with swords.”

Of course. He’s afraid of fire. He’s afraid. “But-the king…” maybe Joffrey was dead. She couldn’t see another way the Hound would desert him.

“Fuck the King. I’m going.”

“Going?”

The Little Bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes.”

“Where will you go?” The Hound scared her, but it could not be good news for her if he was to leave King’s Landing. He was all that stood between her and Joffrey, he said it himself, and he never lied.

“Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.”

“But...then why did you come here?”

“You promised me a song, Little Bird. Have you forgotten?” His hand came heavy down upon her shoulder and gripped her hard.

“I can’t...let me go, you’re scaring me.”

“Everything scares you. Look at me.” He brought his hand up around her neck, his thumb pushing up her chin.

 

And she did look at him, because it wasn’t true - not everything scared her, not since they had cut off her father’s head and made her watch and not since she’d been beaten and stripped, and especially not since the battle of the Blackwater had come in through her window. She tried to wake the blood of the wolf in her veins. Sansa looked at him long and true, and saw that he was not as angry as he was afraid or sad or desperate. He looked back.

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”

Sansa closed her eyes to keep another tear from escaping, because it was all so hopeless. Surely he would not really take her North and keep her safe? Cersei’s earlier words from the ballroom echoed back to her now. All she knew of life she learned from singers. Perhaps he would rape her and kill her instead.

“Still can’t bear to look, can you?” The Hound’s voice brought her back to her chambers.He shoved her down upon the bed, leaning heavily over her. “I’ll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said.” He brought his dagger to her up and laid it across her throat, pressing hard enough that Sansa wondered if he was drawing blood. He was mad, she couldn’t sing now, you don’t sing when the world outside is a hell and you’re covered in blood and there is a dagger at your neck. I could keep you safe. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.

Slowly, without quite knowing what she was doing, Sansa raised her hand to the one which held the dagger and laid it gently over his. And he’ll look you straight in the face. She made herself raise her eyes once more to his. “You won’t hurt me.”

Slowly, softly, she gripped his hand and brought it away from her throat, never looking away from him. Something in Sandor Clegane’s manner seemed to falter, and he let her move his arm. “No, Little Bird, I won’t hurt you.” His voice cracked. The anger in his grey eyes had broken too, and now he simply looked lost. Without thinking, Sansa moved her hand up to his bloodied, burned face, and cupped his cheek. At the same time, the Hound had straightened and lifted Sansa to an upright position, so that without warning his hands were around her back and hers were on him, one stroking his face and the other gripping the fabric at his shoulder to steady herself. Their faces were much closer together than Sansa had intended.

For a long moment, they regarded one another silently, deep blue into flinty grey, as the cries of dying men sounded outside. A flash of orange light brought the Hound’s face into sharp relief, and he was roused to movement. Releasing Sansa and turning his back on her, she watched as he ripped the stained cloth of his Kingsguard cloak from his shoulders and tossed the material gently onto her lap. Sansa sat, twisting her fingers into the folds of the garment. How strange that his cloak was so white and pure such a short while ago. Like me. Another tear rolled down her cheek as she heard the Hound scraping back the bolt she had locked herself in with.

“Wait.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of leaves overhead. Though there was a crisp note to the day which suggested autumn was in the air, the evening was still warm enough, and the birds sang so loudly that they could not possibly have noticed. She reclined on the ground, leaning on her elbows, and craned her neck back to feel the fading warmth of the sun upon her face. For the first time since she could remember, she allowed herself a small smile. Alone in the forest as she was, the world seemed a distant and trifling thing.

“You’re fit to break your neck that way, girl.” Sandor Clegane’s rasp came from the undergrowth behind her, as he emerged into the clearing swinging two pigeons nonchalantly in his hand. Startled, Sansa shot up, blushing. She had assumed she would hear his return, and had not thought to be caught in such an unladylike position.

The Hound settled himself down at the fire she had been supposed to be watching, and set to plucking the birds in silence. He did most things in silence, and seemed to like it that way. Sansa had given up her faltering attempts at pleasant conversation a very short way into their journey. Her very presence seemed to drive the Hound to gruffer irritability than normal, and she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d taken her at all.

The night of the Blackwater was a nightmarish blur. What lingered in Sansa’s mind most clearly were the smells: the burnt, acrid stench of the air all around the Blackwater Bay - and, from behind her, the human stink of the Hound: blood, sweat, vomit - and wine. She hadn’t dared to look at him in the eerie light of the dying battle, hadn’t dared to tell him the iron force of his arms around her was hurting her, had hardly dared to breathe under the cloak he had thrown unceremoniously over her. But somehow it had worked, they’d ridden out the Iron Gate like he said they would, and now the green-and-orange glow of the Blackwater had given way to dappled yellow sunlight, and the stench of the battle had turned to the musky, familiar smells of horse and woodsmoke. Sansa could still not quite believe that she was no longer in King’s Landing.

Certainly the food left much to be desired, she mused as the Hound grunted and tossed one of the cooked birds onto her knee, and the company was worse, and yet Sansa was unable to stop a wild, stomach-churning excitement welling up in her when she allowed herself to pause and consider that she was free. Or she would be, when they got to Riverrun and she was ransomed back to her mother and brother. She could not help feeling a childish sort of gratitude towards Sandor Clegane, despite the fact that he’d taken her for his own reasons and was, she supposed, acting entirely in his own interest.

Still, it was this gratitude which prompted her - after they had finished their wordless meal and Sansa had done her best to wash her hands in the nearby stream - to clear her throat and turn shyly to the Hound. “Beg pardon, Ser, but the-the wound above your eye...”

The Hound grunted. “What of it?”

“Don’t you think it ought to be cleaned and bound?”

“I think you ought to be bound if you don’t hush your peeping.”

Sansa flushed, annoyed. But perhaps it was her own fault. After all, she’d never expressed her gratitude to him properly, and this was the second time now he’d saved her life without her thanks.

“I could...clean it, if you’d like.”

A snort. “What does a high Lord’s get like you know of tending wounds?”

“I know enough,” countered Sansa, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Enough to know that if you don’t clean it you’ll wish you had.” This was true: Maester Luwin had often had her watch him as he treated Arya’s worse cuts, to teach a lesson about carelessness, though it had not been Sansa who required it.

Sandor chuckled. “Do what you will, then,” he answered. “There’s a wineskin in the saddlebag.”

Once she had fetched the wineskin, Sansa realised she was not quite sure what to do - after all, at Winterfell there had always been a wealth of suitable equipment with which to treat injuries. In the forest, there was a distinct lack of such. Stupid, Sansa thought.

She stood fidgeting with the wineskin, desperately trying to work out what he expected her to do. After a long, quiet moment, the Hound growled and snatched the wine from her, upending his helm onto the fire as he did so. Pouring a little in, he turned back to Sansa, slipping his dagger out of his belt at the same time. She took a step back. Growling again, he grabbed her hand and pressed the handle of the knife into it, motioning her to sit down. She quickly obeyed. After another moment’s pause, during which the Hound only stared at her, it dawned on Sansa that he expected her to cut strips from her dress. She blushed again, bowing her head and quickly setting to work. It was only a simple woolen dress, suitable for travelling, but Sansa was dismayed all the same. It wouldn’t be proper to go about with her skirts at an indecent length. But once again, she thought, it was her own fault.

She arranged the strips into a neat pile as the Hound removed the helm from the fire, the wine within boiling now. Sansa immersed most of the fabric into the hot liquid and reserved a few for the stream, dousing them in cold water. Nervously, she approached the Hound, not knowing where to put herself. In the end, she had to resign herself to kneeling between his outstretched legs, as he didn’t seem inclined to move them for her sake. She took a breath and leaned in, gently touching the wet cloth to the cut. It was deeper than she’d thought. Slowly, tenderly, she wiped away the crusted blood and dirt from the wound, glancing as often as she dared at the Hound’s face as she did so. His expression never changed from one of stoic grimness.

When she had removed as much of the mess as possible from his forehead, Sansa turned to the wine-soaked cloth. She raised it to his face, and dabbed clumsily at the wound. The Hound jerked and growled. “Careful, damn you, girl.”

Sansa’s frustration boiled over. “It wouldn’t hurt so much if you would keep still!”

He only glared at her. Determined, she brushed his hair back from his forehead, trying to hold his head in position at the same time. She dabbed again, as gently as she could. This time, he narrowed his eyes but remained still. Sansa shuffled closer, pressing more intently against the gash, and allowing herself a proper look at his face. His scars were mottled and uneven upon his skin, like raw meat, and blackened in places. They trailed down the side of his left cheek and onto his neck. From her position slightly above him, she could clearly see the molten stump of his ruined ear. His own brother. She felt a rush of pity for him, and her hand fell still upon his forehead. Her eyes traced the rest of his face, searching for - something. Some kindness maybe. Finally, she brought her eyes to his, only to find he was already staring at her. She opened her mouth, not knowing what she should say. Frozen under his gaze, she realised he’d seen her inspecting his face as though he were some curiosity at court. “Beg pardon, Ser-”

**  
**“Finished?” She knew from his tone that she was. “And spare me your ‘Ser’s,” he spat, standing up suddenly and leaving her in an ungraceful pile on the ground. Striding to the fire, he dumped the ruined wine over it and spat again, turning to Stranger to unload their bedrolls. Sansa squeaked as he threw hers at the ground next to her, and burrowed wordlessly into it with her face burning. The Hound lay some distance away.


	3. Chapter 3

The question was pressing itself at her lips, daring her to ask him. She had been turning it over in her mind for hours - days, really - and still she could not find an answer which seemed to fit. You are a woman flowered, she chastised herself. She had known that the Hound had been stinking drunk when he came to her the night of the battle, so she should have known that his winesickness the next day would only be the physical manifestation of his regret at taking her. But she hadn’t thought, because she was desperate and afraid, and stupid, stupid, stupid. Each jolt of the horse as they trotted onward through the mud emphasised the word, and the Hound’s mail seemed to jingle with it, taunting her.

And now she was paying for her stupidity. She had never met a man so angry as the Hound in her life, and he was angrier now than ever before. Her very presence seemed to aggravate him, though she tried her best to keep quiet and stay small in the saddle and complain little. The previous afternoon, he’d even threatened to cut off all her hair when they made camp. “Too noticeable for my liking,” he’d rasped, looking her up and down. “You stink of a Tully, and no mistake.” Sansa had never had her good looks twisted into an insult before, and it rankled. But she hadn’t had the nerve to point out that the Hound was rather conspicuous himself, and there were as many men wanted him dead as her. More.

But in the quiet of the woods skirting the Gold Road, it didn’t seem to matter. They had barely met a soul in their long days of riding, and none that the Hound thought worth killing. “A battle like that, there’ll be chaos for days. More, if Stannis prevailed,” he told her. “They’ll come looking soon, lions or stags, but they won’t spare men enough to capture a traitor’s daughter, and they’ll take the Kingsroad, likely, maybe the Gold. As I see it, doesn’t make much difference either way if you’re tucked up tight in the Red Keep or killed in a ditch next to me. Your little wolf sister’s been gone these past months - dead, I’ll wager - and it didn’t concern your high lords and knights overmuch. They’ll still bargain with you as if you were theirs.”

It was the most he had spoken since he had ridden out with her, and he seemed to be talking to himself as much as Sansa. She was shocked at his evaluation of the situation. She swallowed back a lump in her throat at his mention of her sister, and a retort at the idea that the Lannisters were her lords, but took comfort from the fact that she had taken into account something which he had missed. Perhaps she was learning. “Arya wasn’t the King’s betrothed. They’ll have to find me, won’t they?”

The Hound looked down at her for a moment, surprised, and then his face split into a mismatched guffaw. Sansa turned to face him as best she could, quizzical. “Seven Hells, Little Bird,” he chuckled, “You don’t truly believe that they’ll still marry you to him? Even for a little fool like you, that’s naive.”

Sansa couldn’t breathe. It couldn’t be true, surely it couldn’t be true? That she wouldn’t have to marry Joffrey? She dared not believe it. If she wasn’t to marry the king she was as good as free: she was only traitor’s blood, perhaps they would not even look for her. She schooled her expression into passiveness, not allowing herself to feel the mad thrill inside her stomach, birds in her chest. “I see,” was all she said, her voice trembling.

Sandor Clegane’s grin died on his face. “If you’re dismayed by that, girl, then you’re a greater fool than Cersei says.”

“N-no, Ser, I…” I love the king, my father was a traitor, my brother is a traitor, I love the king with all my heart. “I’m glad.” It felt daring and foolish to say it, even in the depths of the forest with only another traitor to hear. A feeling of weightlessness overtook Sansa, and she felt as though she could leap from the saddle and run alongside Stranger forever without losing her breath. Sandor Clegane said nothing. In her excitement, Sansa felt kindly towards him once more. He wasn’t such a monster. The question bubbled up in her throat again, and this time she did not stop it. “Why did you take me? Your tourney winnings surely mean you could not want for gold, and you gained nothing by deserting Joffrey.”

It hung in the damp air, bald and bold. Still, the Hound said nothing. The dread sensation that she had misspoken terribly crept over her once again.

“I-I didn’t mean to pry, Ser, only…”

“Might be I wanted the gold. Might be I wanted the glory. Might be I wanted to fuck you bloody. Might be I don’t mean to give my reasons to a peeping little bird like you who begged for someone to save her.”

I did not beg. I am a Stark.

“Why are you so cruel?” She had meant to sound cutting, imperious even, but the words came out pettish and weak.

The Hound chuckled again, mirthlessly and cold this time. “How do you like your new cage, Little Bird? It’s much bigger than the last.”

**  
They rode on in silence, Sansa blinking back tears as the ache in her back and thighs pounded harder.**


	4. Chapter 4

Still they carried on. Now, though, they were deep into the wood, and the gushing streams trickling off from the Blackwater Rush had for the most part given way to nothing but more trees. The Hound had decided that it would be best to avoid Stoney Sept and the surrounding areas, as they had declared neither for Joffrey nor for Robb. Sansa had to swallow her silent disappointment at this, wishing inwardly that the Hound might see fit to let them pass just one night at an inn. Her back ached from tossing and turning every night on her thin bedroll, and she could barely remember what it felt like to be warm. The thought of a hot bath was almost enough to make her weep. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she must look. _Arya would choke herself laughing if she could see me now_. Each evening as they dismounted, she did her best to make herself presentable; running her fingers through her matted, dirt-darkened hair and rubbing hopelessly at the stains on her dress and cloak. But it was no use. She even _smelled_ , though not so badly as the Hound. She wondered if he’d noticed.

As they hunched over the fire one chilly night, tearing apart stringy chunks of charred rabbit, she had felt Sandor Clegane’s eyes upon her. Having tried to eat the meal with her hands, and met with little success, she was self-conscious. “Is something the matter, Ser?” she asked.

“Not a Ser, I’ve told you. And you look half a wildling, the state you’re in, so those empty courtesies of yours are even more misplaced than at the Keep.” But there was humour in his growl. Sansa chewed her lip, glancing furtively at him every few seconds as she tried to word her request.

“Spit it out, girl,” the Hound commanded.

“Well, I...do you think we might stop at an inn one night? If we find one? Only it’s been so long since I’ve slept in a real bed, and I could...well, we could both benefit from a bath-”

That made the Hound laugh. “Well, I’ll grant you that’s certainly the politest way I’ve ever been told I stink. Not that you’re much better.” He leaned forward and _sniffed_ at her. “Aye, might be you need one. And the Gods know I need wine.” He’d long since swallowed the last of it, and his manner had not improved for the lack of it.  He sucked at a bone for a moment, considering.

“Aye. I’ll wager we can pass one night,” he conceded. “One.” He pointed the bone at Sansa in warning, seeing the look upon her face at his answer. “But we’re in the southern Riverlands now, girl, and this is unsure territory - for both of us. You’ll follow every word I say, and obey every order, or I’ll gift you to the first starving, murderous raper we meet. And that won’t take long.”

Sansa glowered at him from under her eyelashes, but nodded her assent. “Thank you, Ser.”

“Seven Hells, Little Bird, do I have to prove to you I’m no knight before you drop your ‘Ser’s?” His voice was threatening.

Sansa, who had by now seen the Hound turn his back on her and make water almost where they sat more times than she could number, was well aware that he was no Aemon the Dragonknight. And yet, she doubted he’d let her come to harm while she was his…. _Captive. Ward. Ally_. Well, while she was with him, anyway. “You wouldn’t.”

The Hound faced her. “What did you say, girl?”

“I said you wouldn’t. I don’t think you would, I mean. You said you would keep me safe.”

His eyes bored into the side of her head. Sansa continued to stare into the dying fire, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Are you mad? Was it another man who held his knife to your throat?”

“No. Another man might have used it.”

“You speak too free, girl. Mind yourself.” His voice was a quiet, menacing growl.

Sansa finally faced him, cheeks flushed with anger. “Well, it is true that I do not know a knight who would be insulted at the idea that he would not murder a woman, and that you are rough, and crude, and hateful-” She took a shaky breath, seeing the Hound’s eyes widened and dangerous upon her face. “But-but I have never known you to lie, _Ser_ , and you told me that you would not hurt me. Is it so terrible that I believe you?”

The fire popped and crackled in the silence. Sandor Clegane’s eyes raked her face. His mouth twitched. Moments passed.

“And…” Her courage was failing her now, and she had spoken out of turn and landed herself in trouble again, fool that she was. But the words tumbled out nevertheless. “And the men in King’s Landing who are knights are the vilest brutes I have ever chanced to encounter, and so perhaps you are no Ser, but you are in some ways, I suppose... the truest...truest knight of them all.” Her face felt aflame. It was just like her to try to make everything into a song. Silly, naive, idiot _bird_.

And still Sandor Clegane said nothing. Sansa dropped her eyes to her hands, twisting and untwisting in her lap. At least he isn’t laughing at me, Sansa thought.

After several minutes of painful silence, during which Sansa did not dare to look up, She heard the Hound move off towards the saddle bags lying by his exhausted horse. She did not raise her eyes even as her bedroll landed beside her with a soft thump, nor when he rasped: “Go to sleep, girl,” in a more hushed tone than usual.

 **  
** She quickly did her best to obey, glad of the excuse to turn her back on him. But her eyes remained open for a long time after she had crawled into her meagre little bed. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew the Hound was not abed. Staring unseeingly at the trunks of trees a little distance away, she listened to his snuffly movements at the fire, and it was a long time later that she fell asleep to the sound of him unpacking his bedroll, with the stars above them winking coldly.


	5. Chapter 5

When she woke, the light in the forest was still a bluish grey, and the Hound was up and tending to Stranger. Sansa remained curled on the ground for as long as possible, until the Hound nudged her gently with his foot. “Little bird,” he grunted. “Daylight.”  
Sansa moaned softly and sat up, looking forlorn. Tears pooled in her eyes.“Please,” she whispered, “I’m not sure I can ride much longer.” Her muscles ached near as badly as they had after the Kingsguard beatings, and she had never been so exhausted.

The Hound regarded her from his great height. _He really is intimidating_. “Should come to an inn before evenfall. Near enough to Pinkmaiden now. We’ll stop.”  
If it had been another man, Dontos, maybe, Sansa would have kissed his cheek in gratitude. But that was as like as anything else to raise Sandor Clegane’s temper against her, she reasoned.

She straightened, making a feeble attempt to smooth out the wrinkles of her dress with her hands, while Sandor packed the horse. He mounted in one fluid movement, motioning for her to follow. Nervous of Stranger, and in any case too small to mount by herself, Sansa had to be lifted. It was a slightly uncomfortable part of the routine into which they had fallen, morning and evening, and both invariably endured it in silence. Suddenly, though, her foot slipped in the stirrup, and her ankle twisted. She gave a small cry of pain, and the Hound grabbed her jerkily. “Careful,” he muttered. Sansa met his eyes as she gripped his shoulders. “My thanks, Se-” she blushed. She was always blushing.

Sandor’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. As she righted herself in the saddle, Sansa winced. It felt as though every part of her hurt. She’d always avoided riding at Winterfell and in King’s Landing as much as she could, and she regretted it bitterly now. It seemed the Hound would have no trouble living his entire life in the saddle. _Gods_ , she was tired. Perhaps if she could… Tentatively, she leant back a little, just barely allowing her shoulders to graze the Hound’s chest plate. When he did not react, she moved closer again, until she leaned lightly upon him. Shyly, she twisted around, gazing up to determine whether Sandor Clegane was like to throw her from the saddle for her presumption. But if he had noticed her leaning upon him, he showed no sign of it. He sat upright, staring straight ahead with the reins tightly in his hand. Sansa relaxed a little, letting her head drop against him.

But after a minute, she found that her head was rattling unbearably against his armour - _if he didn’t notice before he’s sure to now_ \- and her shyness and discomfort prompted her to shift forward once more, straining instead to see stone walls amongst the trees.

* * *

 

 Finally, _finally_ , the Hound nudged her. “There you go, girl,” he said. Sansa looked up. In the distance ahead, a squat thatched building sat, with a few mangy chickens and a black pig scratching at the dirt outside. The roof looked to be in a bad state of disrepair, and the stables smelled suspicious even from where they were, but Sansa had never seen anything so homely in her life. She closed her eyes, smiled. “Thank the Gods.”

“Thank Stranger,” muttered the Hound. As they approached, a thin boy with a broken arm who looked more poorly fed than the pig trotted out to meet them. “Take yer horse, M’lord?”  
“Aye,” Sandor sighed, dismounting quickly and turning to Sansa. Even leaning over to be lifted down seemed like an exhaustive effort. As the Hound gripped her around the waist and made to lift her, she gave an involuntary sob of pain. Her thighs and buttocks burned, and there were daggers in her ankle. The Hound frowned. “You’re alright, girl,” he murmured. “Saddle sore is all.” Without further warning, he lifted Sansa over his shoulder, gripping her uninjured ankle with one hand and her upper thigh with the other, and striding into the inn as if she were a feather. Sansa was left upside down and too surprised to cry any more, gazing at the scrawny little stable boy through her clouds of dirty hair, who only looked back and shrugged.

Sansa had little previous experience of inns, and her first impression was severely limited by her compromising position, but she could not help but feel that this establishment left much to be desired. Dirty straw was scattered over the packed dirt of the floor, and from what she could see - that being precious little - the inhabitants of the main room seemed a little unsavoury. From over his shoulder, Sansa heard Sandor ask for two rooms. “Beg Pardon, M’lord, I’m afraid not,” the plump tavern girl answered, not looking the least bit afraid, or indeed at all concerned whether or not the Hound gave her his pardon. “On’y one room available. Will you and your...companion be wanting it?”  
“Fine, damn you,” Sandor answered gruffly. Sansa’s eyes widened. Somehow, sleeping in the same room as the Hound seemed far more improper than sleeping in a clearing beneath the stars with only him for company, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother that Lady Catelyn could not see her now.

She was heaved upstairs by a grumbling Sandor, and eventually deposited on the bed. Scrambling to maintain her dignity and pull down her skirts where they had ridden up, Sansa whispered her thanks.  
“Ought to get you a bath. And some food. You’ll eat in here,” the Hound said, looking critically at her. “Could pass for a Tully bastard in these parts, I suppose, but you’ve a bloody highborn look about you even with all the muck.”  
Sansa meant to answer that the Tullys would not have bastards, and if they did they would own them like her Father did Jon Snow, but something made her keep quiet.  
“Wait here. I’ll have the girl see to you,” he continued.  
“What will you do?”  
“Skin a man alive for a drink, if that’s what it takes. Don’t leave the room. Be sure to bolt this door after the maid leaves.” And he was gone, leaving Sansa alone and afraid.


End file.
